Chapter 8

8

“You’re a barbarian!”Joanna announced, wishing she could vanquish him with a mere glare, helpless rage eating through her gut.

The infuriating man sat unperturbed on the opposite bench in his rich carriage, all deadly gorgeous, with the chiseled features of an immortal god. Cheekbones that were so high, they had little hollows under them. A jaw so square one could probably measure mathematical angles with it. Broad, full lips and a sensual mouth, the taste of which she remembered all too well.

And those eyes…black like the depths of night, with long lashes under low-sweeping, thick brows. Fashionably arranged dark, windswept locks fell over his high forehead. His high cravat suited him, the well-made tie making him look even more noble and arrogant. And the body…good lord, mortal men had no right to be so well sculpted, so broad-shouldered, so powerful even under layers of impeccably tailored clothes.

He eyed her with the slightest expression of amusement, his olive skin faintly weathered against the inky purple upholstery behind him, as the Whitechapel streets flashed by the window too fast.

“It’s for your own good, Miss Digby,” he said, not a trace of regret on his face.

Lord Spencer Seaton…that name hadn’t left her head. She was sure she’d heard of him, but couldn’t remember how. The Seatons were a renowned, venerable family within the ton, their name familiar to anyone who followed high society. It was likely she had come across mentions of him or his family in the gossip columns, though the specifics were frustratingly elusive.

Under other circumstances, she would probably be shaking and trembling, talking to someone as well-known as one of the Seatons. Their dance, their kiss, his compliments to someone like her… All that would have felt like a dream.

If he wasn’t such a horrible, selfish, arrogant rogue!

“You must let me out at once!” she cried. “Not only have you behaved like a scoundrel, but you also just compromised me in front of dozens of people!”

“You compromised yourself, my dear, going around town without a chaperone. Especially to Whitechapel.”

She scoffed. “My attire is no different from that of countless servants. In Whitechapel, I blend in, and no one would recognize me.”

He cocked his head, his black gaze drilling through her. “Precisely. You’re not compromised if no one knows who you are.”

She spoke through clenched teeth. “You found out who I am. You followed me and found out the address that was on my uncle’s paper. Now you know everything I know. So why abduct me on the street?”

“There was a man watching us.” The amused half smirk fell from his face at the mention.

“There were dozens of men in the vicinity,” she argued, though the anger and conviction diminished in her chest.

“He was after one of us. Perhaps both.”

Joanna blinked. Through the incredulous fury, she could now feel something new. Never before had she been the object of any man’s attention.

And he was her Hades.

As she stared into the dark depths she remembered from behind the mask, the memory of his captivating scent, the solid feel of his muscular chest and arms flooded back. Her Hades, who had haunted her thoughts since the ball.

Her Hades, who’d saved her from a near-deadly fall yesterday.

Her Hades, who was after the same thing she was and all too glad to interfere with her plans to save her sister from ruin…

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

“To my home. Sumhall.”

Sumhall was in the midst of Mayfair. “You know very well I cannot be seen entering your house alone. Unlike in Whitechapel, I may be recognized.”

“Very well. We will not be seen together. I will ask Carl to have my housekeeper join us in the carriage from the servants’ entrance as your chaperone. And we will talk.”

Joanna supposed this plan, even though it had its risks, was, perhaps, the best chance of her maintaining her reputation. “Talk about what?”

“About what you are after. About your reasons. About how I cannot forget that kiss.”

That kiss…Blood rushed to her cheeks and neck, her skin burning. She couldn’t forget it, either, nor how he’d looked at her—like she was the only thing that mattered in his life.

Dangerous. So dangerous to allow herself to believe this was real. She needed to keep a cool head. Anything she’d felt for him, or he’d shown her, was only because of the masquerade. Because of the intoxicating feeling that she could be anyone…and therefore she could have attracted a handsome and powerful man.

But she knew better than that. That had been like a dream. This was the reality, which meant she was obscure and invisible and she should stay that way.

“I will tell you,” she said with a slight jerk of her chin, “if you tell me what you’re after and why.”

A slow smirk spread across his full, beautiful male lips, and his gaze darkened and intensified. Like a panther, he moved gracefully towards her and sat on the bench next to her, drenching her with his sharp scent of juniper and cedarwood and the fresh scent of the sea, making her head spin. He put his arm on the upholstery behind her back, trapping her in the vicinity of his large body with muscles bulging beneath the fabric of his coat and pantaloons. She remembered the warm feel of those muscles, of his weight on top of her that made her want to melt into him. Her mouth went dry under the intense, burning perusal.

“Do not play these games with me, Miss Digby,” he purred with his low voice that reverberated from his stomach and right into her core. “You will lose. You simply haven’t my money, my power, and my resources. And you’re a woman.”

She gasped. “What does my gender have to do with me losing, sir?”

“It’s not meant as an offense, my dear,” he said, leisurely moving his dark gaze over her face. “On the contrary. I’m a most ardent admirer of your weaker sex.”

“Weaker?” she seethed, indignant.

He chuckled, no doubt amused by her anger. “Let me make myself clear. It is quite obvious you’re capable, smart, and resourceful. Not to mention, deliciously attractive,” he said. And despite herself, she couldn’t say anything to that.

No one had ever called her deliciously attractive. No one had ever said anything complimentary about her appearance! So instead of putting him in his place, she gaped at him.

“It’s all about the rules of our society,” he continued. “As an unmarried woman, you can’t keep going out alone into dangerous places like Whitechapel. A single wrong step, and your reputation is forever ruined. It’s an unfortunate reality we live in. As a man, I am free to go anywhere and do anything.”

“Unfortunate reality is right,” she spat out. “But it won’t stop me. Even with all that against me, you are underestimating me.”

A smile tugged at his lips, which he pressed together to stop. The effect was captivating as his features subtly shifted, drawing her attention to a scar that had remained unnoticed under his mask, and which she had overlooked last night at the opera and even today, amid the chaos of her disrupted plans. The scar was a long, thin line that ran from his temple to the almost impossibly sharp corner of his jaw. Nature had no right to create men who looked as breathtaking as he did. Men who were made even more beautiful by the addition of a scar.

Her anger fled at seeing him hurt. She had the urge to trace the line with her finger, smoothing it into nonexistence. Unable to stop herself, she raised her gloved hand and touched the swollen pink skin.

“How did you get this?” she asked.

His response came with a fleeting closure of his eyes, the playful glint vanishing, replaced by a profound depth, his forehead creasing as if under a weight of pain. He leaned into her touch, his face nestling comfortably in her palm. The warmth and smoothness of his skin contrasted subtly with the faint beginnings of stubble, creating a slight rasp against her hand and setting her body ablaze with tingles. Never did her hand know what a man’s face felt like before, and the sensation left her breathless.

His lashes threw a dark shadow onto his cheekbones, suddenly making him look ill and wounded. It broke her heart thinking this powerful man could be fragile and defenseless.

When he said nothing, her mind raced, searching for an explanation. “Lord Spencer Seaton…” she whispered, and then understanding hit her as the pieces of the puzzle came together.

He sounded familiar for a reason—he was wildly famous in the ton because he had been one of the richest, most desirable, affluent, and rakish bachelors in the ton…who had died very unexpectedly and tragically last year.

As the realization sank in, Joanna’s heart fluttered uncontrollably. It was as if she had come face-to-face with a celebrated hero of a popular novel, someone she had only read about in the pages of her favorite books. And he had kissed her! He had carried her over his shoulder! His hand had cupped her thigh—where no man’s hand had ever been!

“You were the Duke of Grandhampton, were you not?” she forced out. “Didn’t I hear that you were killed at an illegal boxing match…?”

He opened his eyes and leaned away from her, looking out the window. They were now passing Farringdon with its modest buildings.

“I was at war,” he said. “But not by my own will.”

She frowned. “Not by your own will? What happened?”

His sharp jaw muscles moved. “Your uncle happened,” he growled.

Her face slackened in shock. Dozens of questions raced through her mind… How? Why? What was it that Lord Seaton had done to anger her uncle?

But all that paled when a sudden realization had her sitting speechless for a moment.

“Is revenge what you’re after?” she guessed.

“Yes,” he breathed out. “The man ruined my life, and is likely responsible for much worse crimes. He must be punished.”

He met her gaze then. They were both victims of her uncle, it seemed, even though the crimes towards them were quite different.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, he must.”

He swallowed and his face warmed. “It seems we’re after the same thing, then. This is dangerous for you, and you need to step back and let me take care of things.”

Joanna frowned. “Step back? I’m the one that found the information that led to the house in Whitechapel. You wouldn’t have found it at all if you hadn’t followed me.”

“If you hadn’t gotten in my way in Ashton’s study, I would have gotten this information and more.”

Information the significance of which she still had no understanding. Would Lord Seaton have a better idea of what the contents of the letter meant? Those numbers? The locations? The best thing was to ask the person who came on Sundays to 12 Petticoat Street.

He brushed his knuckles against her cheek, spreading warmth like molten sunshine through her skin. “Miss Digby…” he said, his voice like a caress. “I told you much more than I had intended to. Now it is your turn. What did Ashton do to you?”

Joanna considered evading the question, but he’d been honest with her just now. What would be the harm in telling him? If he really had the humanity she’d just glimpsed, he might understand the desperate situation her family was in. He might have mercy and step back.

“Not to me,” she said, losing her breath as his knuckles kept tracing the side of her face, and his scent and his proximity melted her bones. “To my family.”

“Ah,” he said, a half smile crinkling his eyes. “A little protector, are you?”

He could recite bawdy songs to her, and she’d listen as long as he kept talking with his beautiful, throaty voice. She couldn’t stop looking at his mouth…which got closer and closer.

And then he was kissing her. A gentle, soft peck on her lips at first. She should stop him. She should put some space between them and sit on the bench opposite from him. But that kiss sent an onrush of delicious heat through her, and the man sitting before her pulled her to him with an invisible force.

So when he pressed his lips to hers again, and the kiss was both gentle and long, she couldn’t…wouldn’t pull away. His lips felt as good as they had in Ashton’s study. This kiss was slower. Gentler. When he brushed against her lips with the tip of his tongue, she parted her mouth to let him in, indulging in the velvety sensation of his tongue lashing against hers, the sweet and musky taste of his mouth, the hardness of his arms wrapping around her, pulling her closer.

Then she couldn’t tear herself away from him, and as her mind screamed at her that she was being scandalous, no better than the prince regent, who’d made such an indecent proposal to her sister, her arms wrapped around Spencer’s neck. His traveled down her body to her hips, grabbed her thighs, and pulled her up and then over his legs so that she was straddling him.

Two days ago, their kiss had been a rush. A shock. An act of necessity.

This kiss was everything but. It was an exploration. It was questions and answers, curiosity and pleasant discoveries. The contrast of his hard, hot presence against her soft, delicate form made her stomach tense and her breasts swell heavy and achy, pressed against the solid strength of his chest.

One of his hands moved to her breast, and even through her spencer, his large hand couldn’t cover the whole of it. She gasped into his mouth at his boldness and at the way her body jolted from the pleasure of his touch.

“Hmmm,” he murmured against her lips. “I’ve been dreaming about pomegranates since the ball.”

His thumb circled her nipple through the layers of her clothing, and small bolts of pleasure shot through her, and her sensitive nipple puckered into an aching bud. She couldn’t stop a moan. She wanted more, even though part of her told her to stop, that she was playing a dangerous game.

But she couldn’t. The game was too interesting.

From a distant corner of her mind, she became aware that the carriage no longer rattled and moved and shifted under them. There were footsteps from outside on the street.

Joanna tore herself away from Spencer, panting, drunken with pleasure, wet between her legs. Like a sack of potatoes plunked onto the seat opposite him, she hastily straightened her bonnet, her spencer, and mindlessly wiped locks of hair from her face. Spencer, as breathless and disheveled as she, fixed her with a dark, dangerous gaze that had her pinned in place.

For a moment, she thought he would throw himself on her…and that she’d welcome him.

But someone was opening the door. Finally tearing his gaze from her, Spencer laid his hand on the latch to make sure it wouldn’t open. Joanna could see the head of his coachman in the window. They were in Mayfair now, on a beautiful street parked in front of a white mansion with large windows and a grand entrance door.

“Carl, go and get Mrs. Girdwood,” Spencer said. “Tell her I need her to come and escort a lady home.”

The man said nothing for a few moments, then finally nodded. “As you wish, my lord.”

Then he was off, hurrying towards the mansion.

“Mrs. Girdwood will ensure your reputation is intact, Miss Digby,” he said as he straightened in his seat. He licked his lips as his gaze openly glided up and down her body. “Though, I daresay, it is not easy to stop trying to ruin it.”

Joanna chuckled. “A gentleman would offer to do the right thing by the woman he scandalized.”

He cocked his brow. “Believe me, dear one, you do not want me as your husband.”

“I was going to say, I am not looking for one and never will.”

She had always assumed she’d never find one anyway, given her sister was unfailingly the center of male attention. Joanna was just a background Charlotte was shining against. But she didn’t feel this way with him. For the first time in her life, she felt like someone truly saw her.

“That is good, then. I can only ruin you, Miss Joanna. I can’t save you. I’ll be your scoundrel, not your hero.”

“I am not a damsel in distress to be saved, Lord Seaton,” she said coldly.

A soft chuckle of interest escaped his lips. “Good. I also must ask you to stop with your search or you will ruin my investigation. I will come next Sunday and find out what the tall, slender man does when he comes to Petticoat Street.”

She scoffed. “What makes you think I will stop?”

“What, indeed?”

A sudden flash of inspiration had Joanna sitting up straight. She didn’t know what came over her. Perhaps the old, shy, invisible Joanna had gone mad, and a new version of herself had emerged.

A far too daring one.

“How about a wager, Lord Seaton?” she said and regretted the words the moment they left her mouth.

His eyebrows lifted. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “A wager?”

She could still back off, tell him she’d only been speaking in jest. But her mind raced, suddenly enthralled with the idea.

He was right. He had much more going for him—he was rich, powerful, and however much she hated to agree, it was easier to be a man. However, people who were invisible like her could do so much more than others gave them credit for.

If he underestimated her, she could win. And if she won, he would stop, and she’d be able to reach her goal much faster without his interference. Without him following her around and getting in the way.

But she was also racing against time. There were only thirteen days left till Charlotte had to give the prince her decision, and Joanna still had nothing.

“Whoever gets the information from the man first wins,” she said. “Whoever loses must stop their investigation.”

She swallowed, watching him think.

“I like that.” His lips stretched in a wide, devious smile that made him heartbreakingly handsome. “I’m not afraid of a little competition, especially as pleasant as yours. But there’s something much more interesting that you can offer.”

Her mouth went dry. “What?”

“It’s been far too long since I had a woman. I propose that, if I win, you will give me what I most long for—you, in my bed, in the most intimate way that a man and woman can be together. For one long, sinful night.”

At first, she couldn’t believe her ears. In his bed…? Intimate way…?

He wanted to ruin her!

“I told you,” he said. “I will not be your hero.”

Did he truly want her that much as a woman?

No, her rational mind argued. He was just playing a game. He was her rival, and he wanted her to back down. To feel scared. To safeguard the only thing she possessed that would allow a woman to marry well and to ensure her future—her virginity.

But he didn’t know her. At all. She wasn’t interested in marriage, and she could ensure her own future with her writing. Perhaps one day, once she earned enough and would find the right connections, she would start a newspaper that would give her some security and allow her to make a difference in the world.

She may be invisible, but if he thought she could be cowed, he had another think coming.

She straightened her shoulders.

“Those are not equal terms,” she said.

“Oh?” He chuckled. “I’m intrigued.”

She cleared her throat. “If you win, you may have my virginity.”

“Hmmm,” he murmured, the sound like he was rolling a sugared plum in his mouth.

“But if I win,” she continued, “you will not just stop. You will use all your ‘manly’ wealth and power and strength and go up against all the criminals of Whitechapel or the ton itself, if you must, to help me.”

He regarded her in silence for a few moments; a storm of conflict in his gaze had his jaw working, his attention shifting back and forth across her face.

Two figures hurried toward the carriage from the house. One of them was Carl, the coachman. The other was a woman in her fifties, probably the housekeeper, Mrs. Girdwood.

“My lord, did you want me?” asked Mrs. Girdwood as she stopped by the door of the carriage. Spencer gave her a swift look, nodded, and unlatched the door, which swung open smoothly.

“Please get in and accompany Miss Digby home, Mrs. Girdwood. I trust you’ll keep it to yourself that she was here with me, alone.”

As Spencer got out of the carriage, and Mrs. Girdwood took his place beside Joanna, casting a glance of friendly curiosity her way, Joanna braced herself for Spencer’s potential rejection of the wager she’d proposed. He laid his hand on the door of the carriage as Carl went to the coachman’s seat and turned his attention to her.

With his eyes gleaming, he stretched his arm out to her and shook her hand and said, “It’s a bet.”